


they don't know about the things we do

by NoGood_InGoodbye



Category: Pitch Perfect (Movies)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, F/F, Fluff, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-03
Updated: 2017-11-03
Packaged: 2019-01-28 22:43:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12617212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoGood_InGoodbye/pseuds/NoGood_InGoodbye
Summary: You’d learned to love the bleary look in her eyes when she’d just woken up—hair a beautiful mess as she’d look at you with a small, sleepy smile, ocean blue eyes slightly glazed as the world slowly sharpened around her.Or: (Almost) Pure domestic fluff. Also, the five times people got something wrong about their relationship and the one thing the world got right.





	they don't know about the things we do

**1.**

She confessed first.

Admittedly, even _you_ were surprised by the strange surge of strength that had gripped you to say those ten words first. Maybe it was stupidity. Maybe it was courage. Whatever it was, though, you never regretted it.

Your hands had been shaking and Jesse had shot you a stupid thumbs up and dorky grin from his spot in the audience. You were sweating from the lights and routine you’d just pulled off and your heart was racing to find a way out your chest. She was grinning and laughing from her side of the stage as she soaked in the applause and standing ovation.

You were grinning and laughing from your side of the stage as you soaked in her smile and flushed cheeks.

Aubrey managed to usher the Bellas off stage before the stage hand started to yell and you were all still on a high when you’d taken her small, soft hand as the other acts finished and everyone was called back to the stage.

Her warm blue eyes twinkled under the spotlight and her hair burned brightly as if it were fire itself. Her flushed cheeks and blinding grin matched your own. You’d squeezed her hand once and she’d squeezed yours back twice.

As the envelope was slowly opened, you’d leaned in and just—said it. “I really like you—in a very gay, feeling-y way.”

Not your smoothest moment. But Chloe Beale never made you feel smooth. She made your heart race and your palms sweat and your mouth dry and your lips tilt into a dorky-ass grin. She made you feel safe and calm and understood—but never smooth. You never had to _be_ smooth with Chloe Beale.

You were sure of it when she replied with soft pink lips finding yours to the sound of the Barden Bellas winning Nationals.

 

**2.**

She was the romantic and you were a walking, unfeeling robot.

Although Chloe _was_ a romantic, you weren’t exactly that far behind her. Sure you weren’t the biggest fan of PDA and mistletoes made you cringe (who the fuck forced _kisses_? That shit was practically sexual assault waiting to happen), but you’ve planned every single one of your Valentine dates and you were the one to remember weird-ass holidays and anniversaries and _you_ were the one who brought up moving in.

You’d shrugged at your girlfriend’s widening grin. “It’s not like half your stuff isn’t already at my place. It’ll just make things easier.”

You had to buy another bookshelf and had to call Jesse to help you set it up. Chloe had laughed at the both of you the whole five hours it took you to get it together and you’d cursed and grumbled until the stupid fucker was finally standing in one piece.

You had to buy new pillows and bed sheets because “ _They’re not even_ matching _, Beca_ ” was thrown your way too many times that first two days that you couldn’t help but cave (even if you _liked_ the damn mismatched pillows and sheets).

You’d never tell her, but your days were always better knowing that you’d come home to her. You’d learned to ignore the teasing smirks of your co-workers when you’d come back from break with a bouquet of sunflowers or ranunculus or daisies or roses (you’ll never admit it, but you’d spent an embarrassingly long time researching about that shit). You’d take it in stride when you’d be ribbed and teased on a night out with some Bellas or a Bella and you’d spot some random trinket that’d remind you of red hair and blue eyes and you’d buy it instantly with a quick text of ‘ _your day will be made_ ’ before ignoring all the raunchy jokes and shoulder bumps shot your way.

You’d learned that mayonnaise and mustard caricatures in the lunch you’d pack her added plus points to her ‘teacher cred’ and that second graders love it when you take requests from them (even if it _is_ your _girlfriend_ ’s lunch and not theirs).

Even you couldn’t deny the coughed “whipped” that had been so frequently used ever since you two started dating. Even though you pretended to be indignant and offended a shit ton—you couldn’t really care when you were drowning in deep, deep blue.

 

**3.**

She was a morning person and you were a vampire.

Yes, you weren’t a morning person, but neither was she. Chloe’s weekend morning runs were more like “brunch” runs and the redhead _has_ missed those runs before (admittedly, you were to blame for a majority of those missed runs but your girlfriend never complained so neither did you). She’d grumble through her morning alarm during the school year and keep you from leaving the bed during school breaks (even if _you_ weren’t on break yourself).

You’d reluctantly get up for work together—you’d make breakfast (and her packed lunch) while she made coffee and brought out whatever fruit you’d managed to get that week.

You’d learned that, on the rare occasion you woke up ahead of her, a warm cup of coffee (with milk and two teaspoons of sugar) and a (mildly heated) good morning kiss was just enough to get her up. You also learned that if that _wasn’t_ enough to get her up, then leaving the bathroom door open while you took your morning shower was.

Weekends never truly started for you two until the clock hit one and you’d cook up a late lunch or treat her out to her favorite diner three blocks down.

You’d learned to love the bleary look in her eyes when she’d just woken up—hair a beautiful mess as she’d look at you with a small, sleepy smile, ocean blue eyes slightly glazed as the world slowly sharpened around her. You cherished the way she’d go through her wardrobe—half-grumbling, half-whining, all-muttering—before ruffling through yours and settling on some blouse she’d bought for you (honestly, you think she buys those more for her than for you).

You’d learned to kiss away the pout on her lips every morning and rub away the sleep from her hooded eyes.

You’d realized that mornings didn’t suck so much when you had an amazing girlfriend to wake up to every day. You’d learned that Chloe Beale is a wonder to wake up to.

 

**4.**

She was amazing in the kitchen and you could barely work a microwave.

Although Chloe Beale is amazing _everywhere_ , even you had to admit that what she was amazing at was not every _thing_. This fact even surprised _you_ when you’d returned home once to the fire alarm going off and the kitchen windows flung open as your girlfriend desperately tried to fan the smoke out the window. Though Chloe Beale was amazing _in_ the kitchen, she was not amazing at _cooking_ in the kitchen. Her excuses for take-outs and dinner nights whenever it was her turn to cook back at the Bellas made much more sense after that.

Your girlfriend could _not_ be trusted with a knife—or anything sharp in general. The most you let the redhead do is mix the salad or bake (she was surprisingly good at that, which confused you as to how she could be so bad at making tuna casserole—it was practically the same thing) the dessert.

You’d learned that she had a knack for mixing things, though, and when you’d taught her how to make scrambled eggs two months after your move, you endured two weeks of scrambled eggs for breakfast before you had to cave and ask her to stop (she’d pouted and frowned about it for almost three hours afterwards).

You loved cooking for her—the way blue eyes glowed even _bluer_ at the sight of you in that stupid ‘kiss the cook’ apron she’d bought you. You loved the way she’d tell others all about your cooking (as if your cooking were at-par with Mrs. Beale’s Thanksgiving magic) and the way she’d look at you with the proudest grin on her lips and the happiest glow in her cheeks. You loved the way she’d call you during her lunch breaks and squeal for a good ten seconds before bulldozing through a stream of praise about the (cold, soggy) lunch you’d made her. You loved the way she’d exaggeratedly moan at every first-bite during dinner (and, okay, maybe it _did_ get you turned on—sometimes. Rarely. You swear she planned it all).

You stopped caring about the way your friends teased you for being so “wife-y” (Amy still ribbed you about making her packed lunch—fuck her, the ‘thank you’ sex was always more than worth it).

You loved cooking for Chloe Beale.

 

**5.**

She said “I love you” first.

Maybe you were impatient, or maybe you were just really, _really_ fucking _sure_ , but warm blue eyes were gazing down at you and the curtains were open just enough to light her hair on brilliant fire and her lips were curved into that soft smile that made your breath hitch and your knees shake _every time_ and so you’d said it. Whispered it. Prayed it. Believed it.

Your fingers traced over her cheekbones, calloused thumb brushing over smooth skin. Your voice was soft—reverent. “I love you.”

She’d stilled, ocean blue eyes swimming all over you. You’d smiled in reply, an overwhelming calm filling and pouring out of you. You’d repeated it. Louder. Certain. Confident. “I love you, Chloe Beale.”

You heard her breath hitch and watched warm blue eyes widen. You felt the first stray tear brush your thumb and soon enough you had to sit up and envelope your best friend—girlfriend, favorite human being—in a hug as she clung to you and cried. You felt the years of want and hope and _love_ soaking through your shirt as you held her tight and close, whispering the words over and over.

You felt both incredibly sad and in love. Knowing that you had that effect on her bowling you over in every way. You felt like the dumbest asshat in the planet for taking so long to say the words the most amazing human being in the planet deserved and had wanted to hear every day for years. You also realized that there was no possible way to love the redhead more than in that moment, wrapped around each other, feeling the love she has for you overflowing.

“Sorry,” she’d hiccupped minutes later, pulling away slightly with adorably flushed cheeks and glowing blue eyes. Your thumbs brushed away the tracks as you placed a soft kiss on her forehead. You’d mumbled, “It’s fine.”

Chloe laughed, swiping under her nose as she looked back at you, “I love you, too. A real fucking ton.”

You’d grinned, pulling her close to pepper her face with kisses. “I know.”

 

**6.**

You were made for each other.

Maybe not in that stupid we-complete-each-other kind of way, but in an I-could-live-this-life-a-septillion-times-over-but-I’d-still-choose-you-again-and-again kind of way. Because you knew that no lifetime or universe or alternate dimension could make another person as amazing and genuine and loving and sweet and passionate and brilliant and _everything_ as Chloe Beale.

She’d call you during your late shifts in the studio and talk about anything and everything just to keep you awake and away from too much red bull. You texted her every morning with a ‘ _you’ll do great today, gorgeous!_ ’ and maybe a shit ton too many heart emojis for a morning text (or any kind of text). She gives you the best massages _ever_ (after work, while marathoning another show, after washing dishes, while in the tub). You make her the cheesiest mixes that she _always_ falls in love with.

You walk on her right side so that your dominant hand’s holding hers. She keeps all your favorite food in the lower cabinets so that you don’t climb the counters. You cap her toothbrush every night because she always forgets to. She backs up all your mixes in the extra hard drive she bought you (after that last panic you went through at losing half of your latest mixes to a fucking virus).

She holds your hand and hums the top 20s when you’re overworked and stressed. You make her favorite soup and tell her silly stories when she’s sick and bedridden. She reminds you that life is beautiful and worth pursuing when you feel fucked up and over. You remind her that the world isn’t rainbows and butterflies and keep her from doing ridiculous shit like giving your car to an obvious scam artist.

You keep each other grounded and breathing and _living_. You’d learned how to handle parents and kids much more than is considered normal for a music producer. She’d learned how to deal with talents and care for equipment much more than is considered normal for an elementary school teacher. You made adjustments for each other and accepted one another and loved and love and are in love with each other.

You had your fair share of fights and arguments—you disagreed about things and knew just what to say and do to push each other’s buttons. And sometimes you abused that and sometimes she did and every time you hated that you did. But you never regretted a second being with her—being her friend, her teammate, her best friend, her co-captain, her girlfriend.

Maybe there were many things the world got wrong about you two—about your relationship—but it didn’t matter. You could be the most misjudged couple in the world but as long as you had her—as long as you had Chloe Beale, well, you didn’t care.

You couldn’t imagine life without Chloe Beale and you were thankful that you never had to.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Disclaimer:** I don't own anything Pitch Perfect (aside from the albums I bought???)
> 
> Anyways, I hope you all enjoyed! Yes, it's _another_ five plus one fic but I did a shit ton of those over my week-long break from academics (which I slightly regret (TTnTT)) so I hope you still enjoy this fluffball! (Also, I only thought of the One Direction song title (it's They Don't Know About Us by 1D, if yah don't know) like minutes before I was going to post, hahaha, so, listen to it, maybe? It's really not relevant but I realized it goes REALLY fucking well with the story, soooooo)
> 
> This will be the last fic I'll be posting for a while because I really need to focus on my dying acads (or me dying, basically, everything's dying tbh) BUT I promise a Christmas fic when the time comes! Because I'm a sucker for Christmas and I'll definitely finish all the fics I have half-done or almost done in my (ever growing) Bechloe Word file.
> 
> Anywho, tell me if you spot any mistakes (because this shit is unedited, as always. I should really look for a beta, hahaha. Anyone willing? ;))
> 
> xoxo


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